As my favorite characters fade into a quick and easy oblivion, I play my best memories of them on repeat until they’re so degraded that my fiction fucks with the reality of it all and I’m just left crying, wondering what’s real, what’s imagined, and who the hell we’ve all become.

It’s like telling a wall, I really wish you could just love me a little, and watching it as it doesn’t blink, doesn’t speak, doesn’t budge. And you know, in your heart, it’s a wall — it will never love me at all, because it can’t.